


Just a Nod to Mortality

by tomato_greens



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen, Self-Immolation, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-15
Updated: 2011-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-16 23:39:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomato_greens/pseuds/tomato_greens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's not one to do things by halves; he never has been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Nod to Mortality

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt [hesselives](http://hesselives.livejournal.com) had on her journal a while back: "Arthur commits self-immolation in reality. There is only one other witness." MAJOR DARK THEMES WARNING!

Arthur's not one to do things by halves; he never has been. He lines the trash bin with a bag and fills it partway with gasoline, then sets the shirt and jeans in carefully, making sure nothing's left dry.

He feels curiously cheerful that day, better than he has in months. In years, really. The constant roiling creature that lives under his breastbone and constantly gnaws at his sternum has quieted.

Arthur keeps finding himself humming under his breath: The Kinks, The Beatles, The Cranberries, bands he and Mal used to listen to for hours on end. He can still feel it––lying there in the dark, in their shitty one-bedroom, all the lights off and just their breathing proving anything was alive at all.

"You seem cheerful today," Eames says.

It's not often that they work together, anymore, not since Cobb's gone out of the business and the networks have all changed. Arthur has trouble keeping up with his connections, which favor is owed by whom, when things need to be done by to set future jobs in motion. It's been nice, watching them drop off one by one. He shrugs and says, "Almost time for a vacation."

Eames raises his eyebrows. "A human desire from our own little automaton?"

Arthur snorts. "I'm human, too, Eames."

"I find that difficult to believe," Eames says. "So, going someplace warm?"

Arthur thinks about the garbage bin, barely controls a shiver that sends itself down his spine. "You could say that," he says.

It's not that he's into pain, or anything, not really. It's not like he's looking forward to it––to the end, sure, but not necessarily the way he's getting there. But he can't leave any evidence, and the only person he trusts to take care of it is himself.

"Want a send-off party?" Eames asks. "I bake a mean cake."

"No thanks," Arthur says. "I have no doubts that your baking is as professional as the rest of your demeanor, but I'm used to leaving on my own."

"True," Eames says, musingly, "aren't we all."

They get through the job well enough––not totally cleanly, but the carnage is, at least, limited to dreamspace.

"Nice working with you," says Siobhan, their extractor, talented but not extraordinary, someone Arthur won't particularly miss working with. "Your money'll be wired to you in the next forty-eight hours."

Arthur nods, shakes her hand. "Sure," he says easily. "Goodbye."

The job happened in his city, his home base, so although he melts into the gridwork on his way back, he doesn't hightail it for the airport like no doubt all the other members of the team are doing. Instead he slums it back to his own apartment on the subway.

He sleeps for two days, but nothing changes except the creature starts gnawing again. He remains ever aware of the garbage-bag lined bin in his kitchen, well away from the stove, waiting for him.

Arthur's careful to time it so that it is statistically improbably anyone else will get caught in the blaze. He doesn't want to hurt anyone he doesn't have to. It's sad that the building has to go, too, but, well, c'est la fuckin' vie.

He undresses and folds his clothing over the back of a chair, pulling on the gasoline-soaked garments after wringing them out gently so that they won't drip everywhere. When he'd first thought of this, he'd been going to wear his least-favorite suit, but there was no need for dramatics, after all, and he might as well be comfortable and threadbare, the way he started out.

He's nearly done when he hears a cautious little knock on his front door. Curiosity gets the better of him; he opens the door.

"Hello," says Eames.

"You shouldn't be here," says Arthur.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" asks Eames.

"I don't think so," Arthur answers, frowning.

"Perhaps I'll invite myself," Eames suggests, inching his way in.

"You do tend to do that sort of thing," Arthur agrees, and slides aside so that Eames won't brush against his wet clothing. Eames hasn't so much as glanced twice his way, has stuck neither his nose nor his fingers where they don't belong, other than being inside Arthur's apartment. It's a little unnerving.

"So," Eames says, staring around. "What are you up to?"

Arthur looks at him in disbelief. "Relaxing," he says.

"Does it always smell so in here?" Eames says, wrinkling his nose. "You might want to get your gas checked. It seems you have a leak."

"Mmm," says Arthur.

Eames turns to look at him, staring him straight in the face. It's uncomfortable. "Arthur, Arthur," he says. "Whatever shall we do with you?"

Arthur feels himself shut down. "What do you want, Eames?" he asks, suddenly exhausted.

"You don't seem yourself," Eames says, twisting his mouth to the side.

Arthur has always wondered if it's a genuine tic or one appropriated just for him––probably the latter, it seems an Eamesian thing to do. "I don't," he says.

"No," Eames says. "Do you?"

"I don't know, you tell me," says Arthur. He wants Eames to leave. He wants to go to sleep. He wants it all to stop, Jesus Christ. "People are your thing, aren't they?"

"You have never been my thing, Arthur," Eames admits. "Not that I haven't tried to understand you."

"Thanks for the flattery, now will you please get out?" Arthur says, maybe a little more barbed than he means to.

Eames looks shocked, hurt, but Arthur has come to doubt Eames is every anything more than another forge. "If you really want that."

"Yeah," says Arthur. "Yeah, I do."

Eames leaves. Arthur takes a deep breath and takes stock of his convictions, which haven't changed. No big surprise.

The clothes have dried a little to his skin, so he goes back into the the kitchen, undresses, resubmerges each article carefully and then puts them all back on, in order. It's a ritual, he sees now, or a prayer, and his body the altar.

He gave up smoking years ago, but he's still got the little Zippo lighter, scarred from use. He was going to use matches––they seem more pure, somehow, more fitting––but sometimes matches don't catch, and he doesn't want to make mistakes. There aren't room for mistakes.  
He flicks the lid open and is consumed.

Dimly, through the pain, the choking smoke, he hears a frantic rapping at the door, but he's gone forever, now, lost, he thinks, and the sound recedes soon enough. He hurts like nothing has ever hurt before, a blistering, terrible, eating pain; he can't breathe for pain or smoke or both. His ears are gone and his vision is white. His vision is white.

 

Mal says, "Welcome home, Arthur."


End file.
